


Help Me Help You

by Mischief_not_managed



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Newsies - Freeform, Romance, spot conlon - Freeform, starts before strike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mischief_not_managed/pseuds/Mischief_not_managed
Summary: Bianca “Stitch” Higgins was Manhattan, born and raised. She was also Bronx, Flushing, Brooklyn, and any other borough that needed a free doctor within an hour - some just seemed to get themselves in trouble more often than others.





	Help Me Help You

I slammed two bits down onto the wooden counter. “Fifty papes.”

“Fifty for the doc,” Weisel called into the back. Rolling my eyes at his comment I grabbed the stack next to my coins. “Gonna save anymore a’ yous today?” 

“Well with your support anythin’s possible,  _ Weasel _ ,” I replied, sarcasm spewing from my cracked lips. He sneered at my comment while I was nudged out of the way as another kid got their papes.

“You seein’ anythin’ worth it?” My brother asked, nudging my shoulder as I sat down next to him on the stoop. 

“I dunno Tony, why don’tcha ask me after I’ve actually opened ‘em first.”

He pushed my face playfully and scowled, “It’s Racetrack ya bum.”

Jack sat on the other side of me. “If you consider the markets good sellin’ news than yes, it’s worth it,” Huffing at the lousy headline, my eyes scanned the paper.

  
“Fishin’s down, that’d be easy to play off,” I murmured to the two boys as I tried to find any other pieces that I could exploit. “Maybe somethin’ about the birds migratin’? They’re killin’ us here.”

“Well you know what we say, Stitch. Headlines don’t sell papes -”

“Newsies do, yeah yeah I know, Cowboy,” I cut Jack off, ramming my shoulder into his, a playful smirk on my face at his usual line. He punched the brim of my cap so it hit the bridge of my nose and covered my eyes. Wacking his hand away I readjusted my cap and threw my hair back into it, hiding it away from others view. His arm fell around my shoulders as he asked Racetrack how Brooklyn was treating him. 

“Oh, yanno. Sellin’s fine, but those horses are doin’ a number on my profits.”

As they jabbered on some more other  newsboys joined us. After a couple minutes the streets started to pick up pace and we scattered to our usual spots. Race walked with me down 14th street until we had to part ways, me to Grand Central Station and him over the Brooklyn Bridge. We’ve been selling since we were 10, but I only got the terminal after the kid who shared it before got too old to sell the news. Tony, or Race, has been at the tracks since he was thirteen, almost three years now. 

He’s the reason I’m welcomed in other boroughs, they knew me from when I would tag along for his card games, and now they call me when one of their boys has been hurt. Kloppman - the man who runs the Manhattan newsboy’s lodging house - taught me a few things about fixing up a person. He’s one of five people who know I’m a girl, the other four being Jack, Crutchie, Albert and Race, and he let’s me stay with the boys in the house in exchange for fixing them up so he wouldn’t have to spend money on a doctor. I’m known outside the lodging house after once doing hundreds of stitches on hundreds of boys after a turf war broke out between Brooklyn and the Bronx. After that, I was Stitch. Plus, it was easier to hide that I was a girl when I wasn't being called Bianca.

The wind started to pick up as I made my way down to the train station, the brisk October air threatening to blow all the newspapers out of my arms. I sold a few on my way over, yelling about people in the ports starving and the world ending. Grand Central was a good spot. I shared it with Albert, another ‘hattan newsie who got the west end while I got the east. It was out of the cold and air conditioning was a blessing in the summer. Most travelers who passed through the terminal were loaded, and if they were coming in they liked to catch up on the news. 

Clutching at my cap, I ran through the revolving doors of the station. I straightened out my clothes and took a quick count of my papes to make sure they all made it.  I jogged over to Albert's side of the station to slap his hand and make sure he was all set with his usual.

  
"Yah not me mudda ya know?" He slapped my hand in greeting with a broad grin on his face. We both know that with this weather they'll be taking shelter, and since Grand Central is in the middle of one of the largest shopping squares people were most likely to wait some of it out here, meaning that we'd sell out quicker. 

  
And, not surprisingly, the day went by fast. We were done by late afternoon and I managed to convince (bribe)  Albert to walk with me over to Sheepshead to meet Racetrack. He doesn't like going into Brooklyn territory, and most newsies who aren't Brooklyn feel the same way. It's not just the newsies that scare him, it's the leader. 

  
Each King of Brooklyn had their own improvements and views and faults. Most of them ruled with their fists and kept their newsies only to gain from them and left the rest for dead. Some actually had a conscience and kept tabs on their own, but each one did have one thing in common. To become King, you have to kill the current one. No King has ever resigned from the throne. 

Spot Conlon killed Samson, the previous king, last month. Samson was one of the worst kings I’d seen. He got at least 20% of all the newsies earnings, he didn't sell, didn't care who got in at night and who didn't, and was always trying to start tension between boroughs. 

So far Spot hasn’t been doing too bad, I guess. He lets Race sell and checks on his boys and no huge fights have broke out yet. I’d call him successful.

What I didn’t tell Albert, however, is that this trip isn’t just to keep my brother company. Being that Brooklyn is one of the roughest places in New York, the free medic should probably make herself acquainted with the King. Or himself, since Spot can’t know that I’m a girl. Who knows how that would turn out, but I’m not betting life in the refuge just to let someone know my real identity. 

Al and I chatted as we made our way to the bridge and beyond. He found himself a real nice girl, Marie, and delivered her a pape’ free of charge every morning. That’s why he leaves early, since she lives in the opposite direction of Grand Central. I can see why she’d like him. He’s a tall guy who’s in pretty good shape for being malnourished. His blue eyes contrasted nicely with his reddish brown hair, and looked kinda rough around the edges. He’s a big softy though, and would do almost anything for his friends. And as he described this rich girl his eyes lit up, even when he explained how they had to sneak around her father since he wouldn’t approve of Albert. “I mean, sure it’s a bumma that nobody can really know about it, but she’s worth it…”

He was so distracted talking about his girl that I led him across the bridge and away from Sheepshead toward the docks, and he didn’t notice until we were almost there.

“Stitch, yanno this ain’t the way to the ‘tracks?” 

“Oh, I know,” I said, looking up at him innocently. “I have to welcome Brooklyn’s newest King ta the throne and make sure that he’s aware of my services, and since we’re over here, I figured I’d just stop by real quick.” Al’s eyes got wide before turning into slits, his face a little paler than before but his jaw twitching.

“I oughta soak ya,” he mumbled, but didn’t put up much of a fight since he didn’t know his way around Brooklyn too well. 

We walked the rest of the way in silence, but once the docks came into view and we noticed how many boys were loungin’ around, his guard was immediately on. He crossed his arms and stayed behind me, almost daring anyone to come closer to us. Albert was one of my closest friends, which is why I confided in him about not actually being a guy. I appreciated him in these situations, and is usually my right hand man when I’m called to treat someone. I usually just square my jaw and look like I’m supposed to be there when I’m somewhere else and I’m fine, but these Brooklyn boys are big, and I didn’t mind how close Al was tailing me. 

The newsies took notice of us almost immediately, and while they did let us pass, they were on edge. A shrill whistle went through the air, and by the time we made it to the end of the dock Spot was waiting for us, his gold cane twirling around in his right hand.

“Youse are a little far from home, yanno tha’?” I stopped a few feet from his ‘throne’ made of boxes and nodded silently, my eyes trained on the metal object. “Where is home for you two?”

Albert spoke up from behind me, used to talking for me. I tried to open my mouth as little as possible in front of strangers so that no one would catch on about me being female. “Manhattan.” 

Spot’s eyebrow quirked a bit, “Then why are youse in Brooklyn?”

I lowered my voice a bit as I replied, “I’m Stitch, Rectrack’s brudda. That’s Albert.”

“No, I knows whose ya are, I wanna know why y’are here.”

“I’m here to intra’duce myself formally. Samson and the otha’ Kings called for me when a kid needed to be patched, and I wanted ta know if youse are gonna be as well.”

His cane stopped swinging as he gave me a once over. “What’re ya lookin’ for in return.”

Now it was my turn for my eyebrows to go up. “In return? Nuthin’. I never ask for anythin’. Some leaders give a donation for supplies if it’s loads a kids who’re hurt, and I appreciate it, but I don’t want anythin’. Docs are expensive, and if I can’t help, and I’ll tell you if I can’t, I’d rather that money be put toward a professional. Hell, usually I pay for as much as I can if I need ta grab a doc, but I do as much as I’m able to which usually is more than enough.”

Spot didn’t look convinced. “I’m not in the habit of owin’ favors, money or not.” 

“I don’t want anythin’,” I huffed, getting annoyed, “ I’m not askin’ for favors and I’m not gonna. I’m as good as a free doc with no money can get. Anytime you or your boys or someone on your turf is hurt and they need help, I’ll be there as soon as I get the message. No charge, no strings attached. If you need time to think it over, fine. Talk to your boys, lord knows I’ve patched up half of ‘em.” 

“Really? You fixed them up? They don’t need some scrawny ‘hattan kid giving them a once over and sending them on their way. They’re strong an’ can take care o’ themselves. If they get hurt it’s their fault and they can deal with the consequences.”

My jaw clenched at the boy leaning over me, his necklace falling out of his unbuttoned shirt. “Then go ahead and let fifty or more boys die this winter when they catch a cold and you won’t call me or a doc because ‘they can take care a’ themselves’. And they work through the coughing while it’s snowing and ignore the fever and the next week they’re bedridden with pneumonia and there’s nothin’ even a doc can do then.”

“Have ya forgotten who y’are talkin’ ta?” My raised voice made him glower down at me.

“No, I haven’t. I get angry when people don’t believe me, especially when I’ve been there for more Brooklyn boys than Manhattan. Send a runner when you’ve made up your mind, it’s not too hard to find me. I have ta meet my brother, but it was nice talkin’ ta ya,  _ your highness _ .” I spat and turned on my heel, walking away from the boy with a stoic expression across his face. Race would have a field day playing poker with Conlon.  _ If he even does anything for fun. _

“B, what the hell are ya thinkin’!” Albert hissed into my ear as he easily kept up with my fast pace off the dock.

“I’m thinkin’ that Spot Conlon is an asswipe and I’ll be damned before I ever talk to him again.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> First story - hope you guys like it! More chapters to come


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